Poisonous Fox

Nathaniel, Solo Inquisitor Nathaniel Vininson, pushed his way through the cramped entryway and strode into the Lowers with purpose.

The Lowers was a hub for the assets, the trained Forsworn, and where alchemicals were mixed to further that training. Hidden deep beneath the Wrecca Tower, one could argue that this chamber was one of the most central, most important, and most critical spaces of the Inquisitors. Hence, his continued ire, that the space had been turned to a laboratory and assigned to a civilian technical administrator.

And an irritating one at that.

As Nathaniel entered, careful not to brush against any of the glassware, active or no, he found that technical administrator prepping distilling one of those very alchemicals, likely one of the addictive stimulants used to improve asset performance. But, what was being mixed failed to matter in light of the summons that Nathaniel had received.

“What and why?” Nathaniel demanded, all while glaring at the tech.

The tech, an androgynous type, wore their hair split down the center, with one half shorn, and the other half spiky. Of course, the tips of what hair they did have was dyed in a garish purple. Assorted flasks and stands littered the lab table, along with a notebook with scribbled annotations along with a much more orderly and printed schedule.

“Just a sec,” they said.

Nathaniel glared, but remained silent. Some of the flasks would be quite volatile–normal, regular people, never knew with Alchemists. Even the Crown sponsored ones. Afterall, it was thanks to an alchemist that he had received his concessions. And he had been one of the luckier ones.

He shuddered, and turned his attention instead to his irritation at being forced to hurry up and wait.

Earlier that morning, a runner had awoken Nathaniel in the hours before dawn. And the night previous had not been restful. He had returned late from scouting the northern chasm, and when he did return, his cot did not soothe him. Afterall, his concessions were large and broad, weighed heavily upon him, and forced him to sleep upon his belly, like a worm.

The sacrifices we make, he thought grimly.

The tech finally bottled their latest flask and turned off their burner, and Nathaniel broached the subject once more.

“What did your asset give you, this time?” Nathaniel asked, barely keeping the scorn from his voice. The assets, the Forsworn, the reason that he was forced to make any concessions at all.

The tech jotted a date and time on the schedule and set the bottled concoction to the side. They spoke as they wrote. “I already passed it all up the chain. I’m surprised you’re here at all, actually.”

“Why would I not seek news directly from the source?” Nathaniel asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yeah, but why? It can’t be easy to get down here…” the tech trailed off, glancing up and seeing Nathaniel’s increasingly fierce glare.

“Just tell me what your pet has said,” Nathaniel said, with a voice not devoid of scorn.

“-assets, man,” the tech said. “People, not pets.”

“Why? Because while you sit here training them like pets, I risk life and limb. If squeezing my way down through cramped passages and awful elevators helps prepare me further for what’s to come, then certainly I shall do so. Do you disagree with my motive?” He finished with a raised brow.

“Nah, that checks man.” The tech shook their head, chuckling. “But it was Cassandra this time. You know her procedures.”

Revulsion. Utter revulsion swept through him at the mention of the false but true oracle’s name.

“No,” he uttered, almost without thought.

“Look, my hands are tied. I shouldn’t be telling you anything. It goes up then comes down, anonymously.” Then, as though throwing Nathaniel a bone, as though Nathaniel were a trained jackal, the tech added, “I feel for you man, I do. But–”

“That is Inquisitor Nathaniel to you!” Nathaniel growled. “Do not think I have failed to notice your humanization of those things!”

“Fine then, Inquisitor Nate–” the tech said neutrally, bored almost.

Irreverence.

Nathaniel grit his teeth and grimaced, wondering if he could get away with murder. Likely not. Crown sponsored alchemists were difficult to come by. And besides, it was very likely that the alchemist had several vile concoctions ready to deploy, from vaporous acids to inflammable tars. Alchemists could be quite the menace.

“Look, I’m not in your chain of command,” the tech said. “But, as far as assets go, I would think that you would be a little more understanding, considering–” they gave a meaningful glance towards Nathaniel’s concessions.

“The nerve!” Nathaniel spat. “Do not compare me to those Forsworn!”

“Look! I know, I get it.” The tech held up his hands to ward off the insult that they had just bandied about like a trite candy a parademaster would throw to children.

Nathaniel growled. “I am nothing like them!”

“Bad example!” the tech said, exasperatedly. “But discrimination is discrimination, yeah?”

“Not comparable,” he bit out. “The Forsworn are called that for a reason.”

“Nevermind! Forget I said anything, alright? It was a lousy comparison. What were we talking about beforehand, the prophecy, right? That’s what you wanted? I might be able to swing some deets.”

Which would break protocol, technically. But knowing the details would certainly be worth something, especially since he would be the one to track down whatever it was the oracle had foreseen.

“Forgiven?” the tech asked. One of his hands had reached under the lab bench, and was undoubtedly holding either an artificed weapon or worse.

“Fine,” he bit out. “What did this Cassandra say then, and when will this Cassandra be retired?” Nathaniel asked through clenched teeth.

“Cass said two persons, male and female, betrayed humanity and swore themselves to an entity. In the wastes north of Southbridge. She didn’t know which entity, or anything about the suspects other than that. Curious that they just showed up out there though. Considering.”

“Bandits maybe?” Nathaniel asked out loud, before shaking his head. “And two? What entity could afford that?”

He already wanted to doubt Cassandra’s prophecy. And yes, he knew–he knew–that her cursed oracles carried a poison of doubt which infected everyone that heard them.

But even knowing that poison’s effect, he still could not help but doubt the prophecy.

There was a reason Forsworn were loathed… well, other than the implicit Heresy.

“It’s what she saw,” the tech shrugged. “She was able to point it out on a map. Passed it up to Sergeant Slewth.”

Growing bored with the conversation, the tech had moved on from writing, and was now grinding what appeared to be a dried shard of what might have, at one point, been an ulna.

Nathaniel could take the tech’s presence no more. The alchemicals, the nearness to the cursed assets, they left him wanting to cringe, and in Inquisitor of the Crown could never be seen as weak.

It would be better for him to leave abruptly.

“Very well.”

Nathaniel started to go, but then paused. The tech had just been doing his job. And while irreverent, it did take a different sort to do that job. And perhaps, Nathaniel should avoid burning the relationship which may prove fruitful once more. Besides, it was common courtesy.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said, adding the words of polite fiction over his shoulder.

“Yeah sure, no prob.” The tech hardly paid attention to Nathaniel, or so he thought. But then, as Nathaniel walked away, the tech called after, “Oh, and Inquisitor?”

“Yes?”

“You got a little something–” the tech said, pointing to their own neckline, just beneath the chin.

Nathaniel reached up to his own and brushed his skin. Through the leather tips of his gauntlets, his touch was greatly reduced, but he felt the tell-tale bristle as his finger passed by a spot. Another one.

This time, he did sigh.

It seemed that the deviations were increasing in frequency.

He gripped the offender and yanked it out, wincing only slightly as it pulled deep from the skin, follicles and all, and trailed just a few droplets of blood. A brown, almost gold, feather.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said once more, this time meaning it. He left, crushing the feather and grinding it to paste.

“Sure sure, anytime,” the tech called after him. “Gotta stick together, right!”

Nathaniel cringed at the words and hurried out, squeezing once more through the stone arches, down a narrow bricked hallway, and finally to the elevator.

He pulled the call bell.

And he waited.

It took a while for the elevator to reach the Lowers. Especially if the meorhs were feeling lazy.

But he had an appointment with Sergeant Slewth, and lateness would not be appreciated. At least not on the Inquisitor’s part.

Finally, after what felt an eternity, the elevator finally reached all the way down to the Lower Atrium.

He slid aside the metal grating and folded himself the best he could into the cramped space. It did not leave much room for his concessions, but given that the stairs were even more cramped and narrow, this elevator was the lesser of two sins.

He rang the upper bell five times, signaling the floor he needed. One of the upper administration floors, with a view of the city.

The car groaned as it slowly began lifting. Not because of Nathaniel’s weight–he was actually light for his size. No, it must have been the meohrs. Perhaps a half-team. Or a lax operator.

Nathanield counted off the minutes while the meohrs pulled the narrow and too small box up. He tapped his foot impatiently.

He did not weigh that much.

The elevator lurched to a stop prematurely, at the Archives, just below the first basement.

“What now,” Nathaniel bit out, glaring expectantly at the foyer outside of the grating.

Per courtesy, he ought to have opened the gate for the other passenger and squeezed himself even further into a corner of the car. But, not today, and not to some scholar.

“Sorry?” A woman said, speaking through the grate from where she had halted the elevator. She was holding down the call cord, signaling the operator to stop, and holding the elevator where it was.

Per courtesy, she should not have done so. An obvious slight against him, and one he lacked the soft power to correct, except with a glare. Though that glare, despite his best menace, appeared to have no effect.

She was unruffled.

Also, she was very well put together for a scholar. Perhaps, she was a noble. Definitely Marked. With no obvious deviations. But then again, he might not have been able to tell.

Very little of her skin showed: she was wearing a conservative black dress with a wide red choker that covered her neck. With her sleeved gloves and high boots, the only skin she showed was her face, and even that was partially obscured by thick goggles. And those goggles! Who wore those in a library?

“Going up?” she asked, smirking, and watching him and his concessions with clear amusement. She must have known she would not have fit. It would not have been a comfortable trip. Did she expect him to give up his spot on the elevator? Confound these nobles!

He decided to return her poor manners with his own.

“No,” he said. “Not currently.” He nodded towards the cord, which she still was pulling down, confusing the elevator’s operator.

She smirked. And stood there. Holding the cord. A minute passed. Then another.

“There is no room,” he said simply. “And I have a meeting. Can you please let go of that?”

She looked at him, then at his back, where his concessions to the Crown laid as folded up as they could.

“I mean, I could squeeze in,” she said, still grinning with painted lips. Who put on makeup for a trip to the library? Insanity, he decided.

“Can you not just wait?!” he demanded, getting fed up with the day, and perhaps, perhaps, just a fraction more irritable than he normally ought to have been.

“I could,” she said, pursing her lips. “Or we can get close, and personal…” she added in a faux husky voice.

He groaned in frustration. “Will today just not end already!”

That seemed to set her aback. And she almost, almost, appeared to let go of the cord. She laughed, shaking her head. “Normally I don’t get that reaction,” she said. “A lady could be offended…”

Muledung. Now he had stepped in it. “Apologies,” he said stiffly. “I have had little sleep. But I truly am in a hurry. So if you would not mind?”

“How about this,” she said with a wry smile, as though she had already gotten the best of the conversation. And perhaps, she had. “You tell me what’s got you bothered, and I’ll let you go.”

He considered ignoring her, but he was in a hurry, and it would make little difference if he told anyone about the prophecy. He would quickly resolve the situation before any but the fleetest of messengers could spread the word so far as Southbridge, and even if they could beat him there, which they could not, them passing the news would make no difference anyways.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Allegedly, two Forsworn appeared near Southbridge.”

“Forsworn…” she thought aloud. “As in Godsmarked?”

“Ugh,” he sneered. “No. Forsworn. There are no gods. To claim otherwise. In this tower?” he scoffed. The woman was mad. He was an Inquisitor, for the Crown’s sake! And while she technically had broken no laws with that terminology, it was just not done. Like holding down the call bell. This woman.

“Yes yes, whatever,” she said, waving off his offense, as though words did not matter. “Which god–no, entity, that’s what you call them right? Which entity was it then?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” He said with his usual scowl.

“Hmm…” she hummed, tapping her lips with a gloved hand. “Yes. Of course it matters. It matters a lot.”

Truth. Different entities provided different Marks, and different curses. Knowing which one beforehand would be useful. Except that had not come with the prophecy. But there was no reason to tell this woman that. Instead, he leveled a dead glare at her, indifferent to her insults, letting it wash off him. What was one more, afterall?

She continued thinking, tapping her lips. Finally, after another minute, she deemed herself satisfied and she released the handle on the call bell. The elevator shuddered, and slowly, ever so slowly, began crawling upwards, even slower than before.

It took a while for the woman to pass out of view. She even gave a small finger wave as the elevator went up.

As soon as the Archives were out of view, and that woman, he let out another gusty sigh. “What an irksome person,” he grumbled.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally squeezed himself from the elevator and onto the fifth floor.

The hallways were no more spacious here, as Wrecca Tower had been constructed for defense rather than convenience. Not that he could blame the designers, but there had been no serious contention since the Shattering. Surely, a remodel would not be amiss? But these were not the thoughts for one of his station nor rank.

Eventually, he reached his destination. The door to Sergeant Slewth’s office.

Nathaniel released a long breath. He had to do this, see his commanding officer. He had to. He had faced down horrors. He could do this. He knocked upon the thick and veneered door.

“If that’s you Nate, then come in.”

Sergeant Slewth’s whiny voice set Nathaniel’s nerves on edge. And that was before the use of Nathaniel’s nickname, which only Slewth used. But what could Nathanield do but grit his teeth and obey?

Just another concession, he reminded himself. All for the Crown.

“Yes, Sergeant?” Nathaniel asked, squeezing most of himself through the doorway and attempting a poor form of attention.

The sergeant slid a waxed paper package across his desk towards Nathaniel. “Take it and get out. You have one week. Dismissed.”

Nathaniel winced. That was not ideal. “But sir, it takes half a week just to travel to Southbridge, and that is at my fastest. Not including time to search.”

“Are these excuses?” the sergeant asked, bored.

“No, sir, but–”

“And are you not our fleetest inquisitor?” the sergeant added.

“Yes…” Nathaniel admitted, his pride warring with the fact that a single week was not feasible! But there would be no arguing with the sergeant.

“Then there should be no problems. Dismissed, Inquisitor. Get those abominations out from my office.”

“Yes sir,” Nathaniel said, before walking backwards out from the office. As he had never fully brought his concessions into the office, he could not simply turn around and leave. No, he was forced to step backwards.

Before Nathaniel full exited, he snapped a salute; But other than a snort, the sergeant returned nothing, going back to whatever his artificed tablet showed.

Humiliating.

But at least the meeting was over. And he was now free, at least for a week. A grin may have escaped past his stern countenance as he stepped out from the tower. Because he was free, and not even the polluted air sweeping up from Kwyntral could break his mood.

Regardless, the city and its quirks would soon be behind him.

He let out a shrill whistle as he walked through the tower’s courtyard. He climbed the stairs leading up to the unguarded walls surrounding Wrecca Tower. Once he reached the battlements, he let loose another shrill whistle. Minutes later his familiar joined him, swooping down to land on crumbling stone, that stone further cracking beneath her talons.

His familiar, Ern, a golden eagle. Truly a mighty creature. Her coloration matched his own, which made sense, in a way.

She regarded him with her intelligent eyes.

“Ready, Ern?” he asked.

She clicked her beak, bobbed her head.

“Of course you are,” he said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Right. Let’s go.”

He spread his concessions out behind him.

They stretched three yards in each direction, left and right. They were wide, sprouting from the length of his mutated back. They were gold and feathered, and from a distant perspective, they might have been regarded as beautiful. Perhaps even angelic, from times of old. Which was part of the problem.

Better to have bat-wings. Or none at all.

Ern shrieked and pecked his jerkin.

He nodded at the raptor’s sage advice. “But best not to dwell,” he agreed.

Instead, with his wings outstretched, he thought strongly of the shared glyph between him and her, their bond, and his spell.

“Wind.”

He activated his sole spell he had received from his familiar. They could not maintain it forever, but while it lasted, it granted much acceleration, perfect for vertical takeoffs.

Per his will, air began to cycle around him, pushing upwards against his wings, abruptly carrying his feet off the ground. His wings, like sails, caught the updraft; he soared. A laugh escaped his lips. Then another.

Ern circled around him, also taking advantage of the updraft.

By the time the spell ended, they were almost a mile above the land, just below the Firmament. At this height, all the problems seemed trivial and small. But he still had his duty. For the Crown. He began gliding southward.

After three days of travel, he spotted an unusual valley. It was a crater filled with green, a supremely rare sight. Nothing grew in the wastes, not without a core. And no cores were out this far, at least not Marked ones.

A significant seed, highly illegal. Treasonous, definitely. But not quite heresy.

Still, he circled in the air, taking note. Several questionable persons tended to a pond in the middle of the crater. A strange pond. It was yellow. And some organic construction, a waxen one, spread upwards from its center.

Just what were they doing here?

If not for his current task, he would have led a much more violent inquiry to discover just that. But as it was, he had a sequestration to perform. And for the sake of the Crown, he prioritized.

Forsworn first, traitors after.

So he made a note of it and continued south.

And he made more notes, for each of the additional criminal camps that he spotted. And monster burrows. And a single dungeon offshoot.

The wastes were truly lawless. But impossible to completely police. So long as it was kept in check though, and never threatened civilization, these aberrations and reprobates were begrudgingly tolerated.

It would have been impossible to catch them all anyways. Even for him. Flight could only grant so many perks before some enterprising scav shot him or Ern down.

He crossed the highway running from Southbridge to Bath, which he followed for another day, passing over two caravans laden with hopefully legal goods. He might have checked, had he not had more pressing issues.

Eventually, he found the canyon that the oracle had marked. He circled it, finding no obvious signs of life. He landed, while Ern continued overwatch. He kicked a stone along the bottom of the canyon, inspecting the old and dried bones. None of them were fresh.

But nobody was there. Even though his gut told him the entire trip was a waste, he marched the length of the canyon, searching for any signs of the Forsworn. And near a tarpit, he did. Signs of a scuffle.

Interestingly enough, from that same tarpit, a Tar Fiend’s had crawled out, and left a trail of slime the length of the canyon. Irregular behavior. Tar Fiends seldom left their demesnes. They quickly exhausted their substance and preferred damp environs. How or why the Tar Fiend left its home, Nathaniel did not know. But he felt certain the Forsworn were involved.

He had a lead.

A day later, Nathaniel found the Tar Fiend.

Following the slime trail had not been difficult, though it had crossed itself several times; the Tar Fiend had seemingly wandered aimlessly. Perhaps part of the Forsworn’s ‘gift?’ He would take care to avoid becoming lost. Regardless, he saw no immediate evidence of any person besides the Tar Fiend.

That did not mean that a person was not nearby. Rather than charging in for immediate battle, he held off, remaining aloft, observing.

“What do you perceive?” he asked Ern, as the eagle’s eyes were far better than his, even with his enhancements.

The golden eagle made a show of scanning the broken shattered ground, before shrieking. A negative then. Ern saw nothing suspect.

“It really is just a Tar Fiend then?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Perhaps the Tar Fiend was the Forsworn? Unusual. Perhaps the Tar Fiend had swallowed the Forsworn and done Middens a favor?

But only the most idiot of persons would go near a Tar Fiend, at least not without countermeasures.

“Regardless, we need to verify.”

But the question was how to verify.

Ern shrieked.

“Yes of course,” he answered. “Killing it. Genius!” he smiled at Ern.

The eagle chuffed and descended, circling a hundred yards above the Tar Fiend.

He of course, went closer. He would have to, in order to kill it. As he neared, flying lower, the very size of the Tar Fiend impressed him. It did not seem reduced at all for its travels. Either it had started at a tremendous size, or a Forsworn’s curse was at play.

The Tar Fiend would die. But how? Tar Fiends could not be slain by steel. No sworn nor spear nor arrow would do. Only spells and alchemicals.

Fortunately, he had just the thing.

He landed on a rock overlooking the Tar Fiend as it gurgled below him. Not more than ten yards separated them now. This was near enough.

“Wind.”

He called the first rank of his spell. Air gathered per his will, swirling around the Tar Fiend.

It stopped crawling forward, instead sending out tendrils all around it, tasting the air, searching for whoever caused the disturbance.

“Pressure.”

He called the second rank of his spell. That same air now began pushing down, compressing around the Tar Fiend, forming a barrier. An invisible force pushed down on the fiend, compressing it, and leaving much air in the area.

The fiend sent out tendrils, but it was for naught. Its surface rippled under the strain. But still, this would not be enough to kill it.

Next he drew his arcbow, an advanced, armless version of a crossbow, artificed and powered by a Hundred C.

He flicked the toggle from piercing to incendiary, though the toggle was misleading. Both piercing and incendiary relied upon heat to deliver their damage, but one cooked a pinprick through and through, while the other left a broad surface of energy, typically resulting in a flash of flame, at least assuming the material was combustible.

Fortunately, Tar Fiends were mildly combustible.

Especially with pressurized air circulating around them.

He aimed down the sights, using two hands to hold his weapon. Not for the recoil, for there was none. No, two hands to help aim. Arcbows were notoriously finicky and inaccurate. But oh so useful

The trigger depressed. A hum vibrated the arcbow. The air between him and the Tar Fiend shimmered.

And then there was flame.

A fiery inferno left the surrounding waste flickering, light spreading so far as the bottom of the Firmament. Shadows reversed across his forehead and his wings.

The Fiend popped and shrieked as moisture escaped, writhing and reducing as thick caustic smoke escaped off it and swept up in a cyclone as a monument to its demise.

Glorious.

It took a better part of an hour for the Tar Fiend to expire. The specimen had been unusually large, but it had also followed atypical behavior. When it had finally finished burning, he hopped down to examine the puddle and soot.

Kicking through the remains, he did find an item of interest.

A fleshy, dirty, pulsating pustule.

Which was notable, as it should have burnt off with the rest of the Tar Fiend. And that Tar Fiends were made of Tar, not flesh.

The pustule had veins branching out from it, almost growing, albeit slowly.

He poked it with a knife. The metal clinked off something inside it.

Oh. Oh ho ho.

He chuckled. He knew what this was. A portion of him was tempted to feed it to Ern–she would never need to hunt again. But… no. His mission. This was a future asset. An important one. The lower levels of the dungeons were very dangerous, afterall. And Liches were easy to motivate, assuming one had their crystal heart.

So, rather than tossing the regrowing meat to Ern, he wrapped the object tightly in a metallic cloth, then tied it even more tightly. It would take a while for the Forsworn to grow through that. He placed it in his satchel and took to the skies once more.

Despite the success, there was still more to do. There should have been two. There had been two. But he had no way of finding the second.

But still, he had one. The oracle might have been wrong. Crown, he wished it so. And even if not, perhaps the single Forsworn would be enough to satisfy? He hoped. In vain, he knew. A vain hope.

He flew back to Kwyn. The journey took the better part of another week. He only had to scrape the recovering flesh off the sides of the tied mesh bag twice. It was gross.

The first thing he did upon arriving was take the same elevator down to the Lowers and drop off the fleshy forsworn bits, still regenerating. The same tech worked their alchemicals, this time working on what could have been a yellow, slimy tentacle.

“What is that?” Inquisitor Nathaniel asked, referring to the tentacle that the tech had just shoved into a mostly dead marmot.

“Side project,” they said. “What did you bring?” they asked, looking up and covering the writhing tentacle and whimpering, vivisected animal with a sheet.

“One Lich heart. But truly, what is… that?” The marmot was still whimpering, and Nathaniel felt an almost instinctual uneasiness from whatever that tendril was.

“A sample from a Wyrkwik,” they answered. “But weren’t there supposed to be two Forsworn?”

“Only one. Perhaps your asset was finally wrong?”

“Or maybe one got away, yeah?”

“Let us hope not. There was an abnormal Tar Fiend. It may have consumed the second.”

“Huh. What a way to go…” the tech stared off into space, before shrugging, and pushing the Lich heart to the side of his table. “Thanks for that. I figure out an infusion for it. You off for the day then? It’s been a long couple of weeks, yeah?”

“I only wish,” he sighed, wearily. He felt marginally more friendly, having flown so recently. But that mood could not last. Hence the sigh. “But no, I must check in with the Sergent to report ill tidings.”

“Right… you do that.”

Inquisitor took one last look at the trembling sheet covering the piteous subject, shuddered, and left.

This time, the elevator service came promptly.

Inquisitor Nathaniel made his report. He covered the fact that only one Forsworn had been found, but that at least one Lich had been returned.

“You’ve got those wings, but still couldn’t manage to find one neophyte Forsworn?” Sergeant Slewth admonished. “It’s a failure. And here I thought I could trust you. I’ll have to issue a penance. Perhaps courier duty?”

Nathaniel winced. He hated courier duty.

“I’ll figure something out. Dismissed. And don’t go far.”

Nathaniel hesitated before leaving. “There was one more thing, Sergeant.”

“Hm?” the sergeant hummed disinterestedly. Again, the man was reading his tablet. Likely the city’s forums. It could be addictive, if one could afford it.

Nathaniel was committed now, so he pushed forward. Perhaps he could get out of his penance. “While enroute, I spotted what could be a large core farm. Needless to say, an illegal one. Sizeable. Likely with a large seed.”

“How large?” Sarge asked, his eyes glimmering briefly with something between interest, greed, and subterfuge, before returning to a dull bored glaze.

“A valley, perhaps a mile in diameter.”

“That seems far fetched. But lucrative, if true.”

“It is sir!” Nathaniel insisted. “It’s in the report, I marked the location, along with several others of interest.”

“Hm. I’ll take a look. Dismissed.”

“If I may speak candidly, sir?”

“No.”

“But–”

“Fine! What is it Nate?”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth. Now was not the time to get worked up over the nickname. “Let me lead a team from a local garrison. I have not had a chance to cut loose in a while.”

The sergeant scoffed. “Yes, because I should assign tasks based off your preferences?”

Nathaniel winced.

“No! Crown no!” the sergeant scolded. “Don’t be daft. We’ll send it to the Mercs Guild.”

“But–”

“Dismissed! Get out, or I’ll find worse penance than courier duty. I know that Princess Marissa had need of an attendant. Perhaps you could spend a month running errands for her? Earn the Tower favor, while you learn your place?”

Nathaniel grimaced, but remained silent. It was not worth pushing. So he saluted, a fist to his chest, and he backed out. Saluting once more as he finally exited the room.

His good mood had been nice while it lasted.